Oi, Malfoy!
by oncetwicenever
Summary: When Draco returns to Hogwarts for his eighth year, all he wants to do is keep his head down and avoid the glares that are constantly thrown his way. However, a flaw in his plan arrives in the form of irritatingly green eyes and messy black hair - because of course Potter is too stubborn to just let him be.
1. I'm Not Some Damsel in Distress

Draco gritted his teeth as he entered the dungeons. It was ironic, he thought, that the classroom he had previously felt so comfortable in now made his skin crawl. He could feel all the eyes tracking his every move at he sat down at the only empty desk in the back of the room, grateful that he would be out of sight and had arrived early enough that he wouldn't need to sit next to anyone. He didn't know if he could bear working next to someone.

He refused to allow himself the chance to scan the classroom to see who else had bothered to return for their eighth year of school. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Granger, which was no surprise, and Finnigan, slightly more so. Something twinged in his gut at the sight of Granger, and he kept his head down as he unpacked his potion ingredients.

He heard the squeak of the chair next to him being pulled back. His fists clenched. Purposely kept his gaze ahead as he finished laying out his ingredients, he kept his eyes on Professor Slughorn and the blank blackboard.

His new desk partner cleared their throat, and Draco remained looking steadily ahead as Slughorn began the lesson. The portly man gave a brief explanation of the theory behind Skele-Gro, before writing the instructions for the first half of the potion on the board.

Draco began to thinly slice his fluxweed when his desk partner cleared his throat again. Sighing internally, and preparing himself for an ugly confrontation about betrayal and being on the wrong side of the war, he lifted his gaze, only to inhale in shock. Two bright green eyes stared at him with interest. The same green eyes that haunted his dreams.

"Potter," Draco acknowledged with a raised eyebrow, his stomach plummeting into his well-shined shoes.

"I didn't expect I'd see you back here," Potter said unabashedly. Draco blinked.

"Well, here I am." Draco tore his gaze away from those intense emerald eyes and tossed the fluxweed into his cauldron. He began to measure out the salamander blood before glancing over at Potter again. He hadn't stopped staring.

_If I can just get through this year, _he thought to himself, _I never have to see any of these people again. I won't have to face this guilt again._

They didn't exchange another word throughout the lesson. Draco finished his potion only seconds after Granger, which he rather thought he deserved a pat on the back for, and wasted no time in packing his things and leaving a vial of his potion on Slughorn's desk.

He had one foot out the door when he heard a faintly whispered, "Malfoy! Oi, Malfoy!"

Pretending he hadn't heard it, he sped up his pace slightly and headed to the eighth year common room. McGonagall had decided that house rivalry was a dangerous thing in the aftermath of the war, but wasn't naive enough to believe that she could throw a Slytherin and a Gryffindor into the same dorm room and expect it to go off without a hitch. She had come up with the solution of a shared common room but different dorms, which Draco supposed was a good compromise. He was just thankful that he and Blaise were the only Slytherins that had returned to Hogwarts. It was a little awkward, but he would much rather share a room with Blaise than anyone else. He and Blaise had the same mentality; give each other space.

He muttered "_Ut simul stare_," and the tall portrait of hunchbacked seamstress swung open to reveal a mostly empty common room. He spotted two Ravenclaw girls huddled over a table spread with complicated Arithmancy charts, and MacMillan the Hufflepuff curled up in an armchair with a pile of pamphlets spilling over his lap.

MacMillan's head lifted as the portrait door swung shut behind Draco. He could see the Hufflepuff's lips curl into a disgusted sneer. Draco kept his features blank as he walked past MacMillan and up the stairs to the Slytherin dormitory. He collapsed on his bed and began to hurry through his homework, wanting to get to the feast and eat before everyone else got there. He hated crowds. The thought of being among so many people after what he did -

He couldn't stomach it.

The next day, Draco got through all of his classes without incident. Potter wasn't in his Ancient Runes class, and he sat in the front next to Granger or Weasley in Transfiguration, Charms, and and Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Privately, Draco wondered why Potter even bothered showing up to Defense. With his experiencem, he ought to be the one teaching it, not the grey-haired ministry witch whose speech patterns weren't unlike that of Professor Binns'. It was clear, however, that while the fame of defeating the Dark Lord twice must have gone to Potter's head, he was still adamant that most of it was luck.

He had no idea how terrifying it was to be on the other end of his wand. Draco still woke up in a cold sweat sometimes, memories of the duel in the bathroom in sixth year pounding in his head.

The same as the day before, Draco did all of his homework up in his dorm room before heading down to grab dinner before everyone else arrived. He dissappeared back up to the room he shared with Blaise just as the Great Hall began to fill, and he breathed a sigh of relief once he was alone again.

Draco felt a small twinge of trepidation as he walked into potions the next mornng, hopeful that Potter had moved up to sit with Granger.

No such luck. Potter was in the same seat as yesterday, and there wasn't a single seat free except for the one next to him. With an internal sigh, Draco began laying his potions kit out next to Potter.

"Malfoy," he started to say, but to Draco's great relief Slughorn cut him off and started the lesson. Throughout the entire period, Draco was hyperaware of Potter's movements, constantly nervous that he would try to speak to him again. Draco didn't know what Potter could possibly have to say to him, or what on earth Draco would say back. He worked as quickly as he could, hoping to get out of the classroom before Potter could ambush him with whatever it was he was so desperate to say to him. He managed to finish his potion before anyone else, and after a brief discussion with Slughorn on the theory, he was out of the classroom before Potter had even finished his potion. He knew he wouldn't be able to avoid him forever, but that wasn't going to stop him from trying.

For the next several days, Draco's admittedly rather faulty plan went off without a hitch. He worked quickly and studiously during class, slipping out before Potter could catch him and before he could dwell too much on the dirty looks most people threw him.

It wasn't the disgust in most people's eyes that hit him in the chest, though. It was the look of pity in Granger's. He refused to look at Potter long enough to gauge what the hero thought of him.

He should have known the reprieve from confrontation was too good to last. Friday morning, he had barely left the dungeons after potions when he was cornered by a Hufflepuff seventh year.

"How can you bear showing your face here?" He demanded. Draco didn't reply. He wanted to avoid a fight if at all possible. "How can you live with yourself, after what you and your people did?"

"Look," Draco said calmly, "If there was -"

"My sister died in the battle," the Hufflepuff said, his enraged eyes sparkling with the threat of tears. "Your aunt killed her."

Draco felt sick. "And I'm sorry for your loss," he said, ignoring the twinge in his gut, "But I need to get to -"

"I don't think you get it," the boy snarled, wiping his eyes quickly on the back of his sleeve. "My sister is _dead._ And you were on their side. You should be locked in Azkaban with that murderous piece of vermin you call a father." Draco was suddenly very aware of the wand the other boy was gripping tightly in his hand, his knuckles white.

He raised his hands slowly. "You have no idea how sorry I am, how much I wish that things had been different," he said gently, "and -"

"Incarcerous!" The Hufflepuff cried, and thick cords of rope wrapped themselves tightly around Draco. He swore.

"This is for Lydia," he whispered, and Draco winced as the Hufflepuff raised his wand -

"Expelliarmus!" Came an annoyingly familiar voice. The Hufflepuff's wand flew out of his hand, and Draco's heart jumped into his throat.

Because of course his savior was Potter.

"Get out of here," Potter ordered the Hufflepuff after throwing his wand back on the cold stone floor. The boy swallowed, shot one last angry glare at Draco, and took off down the corridor after picking up his wand.

"Diffindo," Potter murmured, and the ropes around Draco fell apart.

"Thanks, but I don't you to save me. I'm not some damsel in distress," Draco snapped, straightening his robes. Potter raised an eyebrow.

"Ouch, Malfoy. I was only trying to help."

"Well don't," Draco retorted, before brushing past the war hero.

"Oi, Malfoy, wait! I've been trying to talk to you -"

Draco rolled his eyes and spun on his heel to face Potter. "What? You saved me to feed your hero complex, and now you're going to get revenge on everyone who died by attacking me? Go ahead."

Potter had the audacity to look surprised at Draco's venom. "Actually," he said slowly, looking Draco up and down as if reevaluating him, "I just wanted to thank you."

Of all the things that could have possibly come out of Potter's mouth, that was possibly the one Draco had least expected. "You what?"

"I wanted to thank you. Or - thank your mother, really, but she isn't exactly… available." There was a beat, when Potter seemed to expect him to say something. When he remained silent, Potter continued. "I just - she saved my life, the day of the battle. In the forest. She managed to fool Voldemort into thinking I was dead."

Draco crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, she still ended up in Azkaban, didn't she?" He said bitterly. Potter at least at the decency to look ashamed, his gaze shifting down to look at his toes.

"I did try - I went to her lawyer, and the minister, and the Head of the DMLE - they all said she would go no matter what. But - the minister said she would get a lighter sentence -"

Draco snorted. "It's Azkaban, Potter. It doesn't make a difference if it's fourty years or a hundred. She'll likely go mad either way." His tongue tasted black, and suddenly his vision was slightly blurred. "Now if you'll excuse me," he muttered, "I have a class to get to."


	2. Since When Have You Cared?

Draco opened his trunk with a soft click. Quietly, so not to wake Blaise, he pulled out a small case of tiny potion phials. Uncorking one, he tossed the blue potion back like a shot of firewhisky and shoved the empty phial back into the case. He'd have to order some more soon; there were only three or four left.

"How long have you been taking Calming Draught?"

Draco jumped, swearing lightly under his breath as his knee slammed into his bedpost. "Damn it, Blaise," he said angrily.

"Well I can see why you've been taking it," observed the other boy smoothly from where he stood in the threshold of the bathroom, carefully folding the cuffs of his sleeves. "You're jumpier than my fourth stepfather, and he had nightmares about flobberworms."

Draco rolled his eyes and stood up gingerly, trying not to put any weight on his pained knee. "You're a right bastard, Blaise," he muttered, grabbing his outer robes from where they hung on the chair near him.

"Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey," said Blaise with a raised eyebrow. "Taking calming draughts is a short term solution. If you -"

"Thanks, Blaise, but with all due respect, if I wanted to live with someone who stuck their nose where it doesn't belong I would have gone and stayed with Pansy when she offered."

Draco pulled his robes on as he heard Blaise let out a quiet sigh before leaving the room. Draco kicked his trunk back under his bed and followed the other boy out of the room, already feeling the effects of the potion. The buzzing of his blood had faded, and the feeling of worry that had been building at the back of his head began to slowly dissipate.

By the time he arrived in the Great Hall, the constant anxiety that bubbled beneath his skin had been pushed down as low as it ever was these days, and he enjoyed the temporary calm. He always went to meals as early as he could and left as soon as possible, wanting to avoid the rush. He hated the whispers and sneers that followed his every step when in a crowd.

Today was no exception. The only other people in the Great Hall at that moment were three Ravenclaws, one Hufflepuff, Blaise, and -

Potter.

Draco internally groaned at the sight of the Gryffindor, his anxiety rising slightly despite the calming draught. Of course Potter decided to be the proverbial bird that catches the equally proverbial worm today.

He scarfed down his toast, intending to leave as soon as possible. Every time he glanced up, Potter ducked his head quickly, as if he had been staring. What the hell was his problem? Potter of all people should know how uncomfortable it is to be stared at. Then again, Potter had never had much tact.

He finished quickly, grabbing his bag and not deigning to give Potter one last glance before leaving the Great Hall. Instead he headed to the library. He still had half an hour before charms started, and they were on the same floor.

Draco carefully settled into a desk in a back corner of the library, setting a his inkwell and quill on the table. He slid two rolls of parchment out of his bag. If he worked quickly, he could finish his essay on minor human transfigurations.

He sat in solitude for a quarter of an hour, the only sound the gentle scratching of his quill on the parchment piercing the calm. However, as he started his conclusion, he noticed movement at the edge of his villain.

He scowled as he looked up to see Potter approaching him. Why couldn't the boy just leave him alone?

Potter hesitated when he met his gaze. "What?" Draco snapped. Potter tugged at the sleeves of his robes as Draco closed his inkwell and shoved everything back in his bag.

"Malfoy, I, uh - I have a question," he said slowly, as if afraid any word might set Draco off.

"I don't suppose it can wait until after Charms?" Draco drawled, really not in the mood to have a repeat of yesterday.

"We still have fifteen minutes, it won't take long, I promise," Potter said quickly.

Draco, not really seeing a way out of this that wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass later, sighed. "Fine," he said shortly, "What?"

"When Hacklesbee - the Hufflepuff from yesterday - cornered you," he said quickly, as if worried Draco would leave if he didn't get the question out soon enough, "you didn't even raise your wand before he landed his spell."

Draco crossed his arms. "And? We can't all be master duelists, Potter," he sneered.

The hero tilted his head. "But I've seen you fight. You're good. And you - you have survival instincts. You didn't even try to raise your wand. Why not?"

Draco swallowed, and suddenly he could hear his blood roaring through his ears. His fists clenched and the sharp sting of his fingernails digging into his palm brought him back down to earth.

"Like I said," he managed through tightly gritted teeth, his jaw growing sore from the force of it, "I'm not a master duelist. I don't know what you think you saw, but I didn't have time to draw my wand. I wanted to resolve it peacefully, and by the time I realized it was too late -"

"Bullshit," Potter said, and Draco blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not exactly diplomatic. Besides, Hacklesbee is a shit dueler. I paired up with him two days ago in Defense. You still should have had plenty of time to draw your wand."

"Oh, pull your head out of your arse, Potter," Draco snapped. "I'm a Slytherin, and a war criminal. He -"

"You're not a war criminal, your record was expunged -"

"Legally. Legally I'm not a war criminal. But I still helped them, didn't I?" Potter was silent, and Draco sneered. "He's a Hufflepuff. I'm a war criminal, with two parents in Azkaban. Let's say I did draw my wand, and we dueled, and I won. You think that would be the end of it?"

"I don't -"

"Merlin, you really are thick, aren't you? Hacklsebee would go running to McGonagall, or his parents, and I'd be blamed. And expelled. And possibly arrested. There are enough parents who want me out of the school as it is."

Potter's eyes narrowed, but Draco crossed his fingers within his pocket and hoped that he bought the - well, it wasn't technically a lie. It probably was true. But it still wasn't the real reason, and he did _not _want to get into the true rationale behind his refusal to fight back.

"I suppose you're right," he conceded reluctantly, "I thought maybe…"

"Well you thought wrong." He shouldered his bag and stood. "I need to get to class." He left as quickly as he could without seeming like he was still trying to hide anything.

To his relief, Potter didn't try to sit next to him in Charms. He let himself get lost in the copius amounts of notes Professor Flitwick had set, complicated magical theory replacing the niggling self-conscious worries that plagued him so often.

He skipped lunch and avoided the Great Hall; instead, he made his way across the grounds, sitting up against a tree near the quidditch pitch and gnawing on an apple. The solitude was so preferable to the countless glares he received in the castle he was almost tempted to stay there forever, looking up at the sky, and never going to Potions. Alas, by the time he finished his apple, reality set in. With a morose expression and a visible drag to his shoulders, he made his way back to the castle and down into the dungeons.

To his horror, he was the last to arrive, and the only seat available was, once again, next to Potter in the back of the classroom. Draco narrowed his eyes as he approached, slinging his bag on the floor and refusing to look at Potter. What was his deal? Surely he could have asked someone else to move; nobody would dare refuse the Chosen One.

To his intense relief, Potter didn't try to speak to him. When they retrieved their cauldrons from the side to continue the Skele-Gro, he said a polite "excuse me," and that was all. Every time Draco glanced over at the other boy, he seemed consumed with his work - not that it was doing him any good. What was meant to be a thin brown liquid, emitting gente puffs of steam, Potter had somehow turned into a congealed grey mess. Next to Draco's perfect brew, it was entirely pathetic. This wasn't the first time he had ruined a potion; Draco knew he had a track record of poor grades in this class. And it wasn't like Potter was stupid; he seemed to have some sort of block.

When he attempted to add the wrong ingredient for the fourth time, Draco snapped. "No," he said shortly, "Not the beetle eyes. Add the stewed bat bones first."

Potter swung his head up to look at Draco, but he had already turned away. Draco's neck heated under the other boy's stare. "Thanks," he said slowly, following Draco's advice. Draco swallowed.

"Well done, Draco! Excellent work," beamed Slughorn as he collected their potion samples. "Don't vanish the rest of it, I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will want to make good use of this, it's in perfect condition. And, er…" his eyes drifted to Potter's potion, the brewer himself standing behind it and shrugging ruefully. "Well, there's room for improvement, at any rate. I'm sure next class you'll do better. Off you go!"

Draco didn't spare any time dawdling and, with a short nod to Slughorn, all but bolted out of the room. Being around Potter made it harder to breathe; years of spite and jealousy did not mix well with months of intense guilt, and Potter was simply a reminder of everything Draco wasn't, and everything he could never be.

He stumbled down the hall and up the stairs, desperate to get out of the dungeons and breathe fresh air; as he flew through the corridors, he ignored the strange looks and the thump in his chest that was far too quick to be healthy. He finally made it out and he inhaled as deeply as he could, his fingers digging within the bookbag slung around his body. They finally made contact with a slender glass vial and he pulled it out and uncorked it, taking the Calming Draught like a shot of Firewhisky and leaning against a tree trunk. He gripped the bark tightly, his skin raw against its roughness, as he waited for the potion to set it.

It only took a few minutes before his chest grew softer and his breath came more easily. He ran a hand through his blond hair before turning around and coming face-to-face with Potter.

"Seriously? What, are you stalking me now?" He demanded, crossing his arms.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright," Potter said cautiously, his hands gently raised in a placating gesture. Draco had never been more grateful for Calming Draughts, as he was sure he would not have reacted very diplomatically without one.

He snorted. "Right. Since when have you cared if I was alright? Was it last year, when you got both my parents thrown in prison?" Potter tried to interrupt but Draco ignored him and continued, "Or was it in sixth year, when you cursed me and left me bleeding out on the bathroom floor?" Okay, maybe he still wasn't being diplomatic.

Potter's brilliant emerald eyes had the audacity to flood with hurt, and he took a wavering step back as if Draco had shoved him. "That was - I'm sorry. I really am. There's nothing I can say to take it back, and I'm not making excuses, but - I didn't know what it would do. I was a fool."

Draco heard himself laugh incredulously, his tone scathing. "You cast a spell on a fellow student when you _didn't know what it did? _"

"I know. I know, it was stupid and selfish and I can't take it back. But - if there's something I can do -" Potter looked like a wounded dog, and Draco couldn't help some small flicker of satisfaction, ignoring some deeper twinge that this conversation was all wrong. It was inside out.

"You want to make it right, Potter? Here's a start - stop following me. Just leave me the fuck alone," he spat, shouldering past the other boy to prevent an outburst of the slimey, unforgiving emotion crawling in the base of his stomach. Instead he hurried through the castle, his fingernails digging into his palms, and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady. Either the Calming Draught was faulty or he would be even more worked up without it, both of which were equally implausible.

What in the world was Potter's problem? Why was he so hellbent on not letting Draco get a moment's peace? And the gall of him to pretend to feel guilty about what he had done, when he knew Draco's sins ran so much deeper, was insulting. The alternative, that he actually _did _want to make it up to Draco, was even worse. Of course he would. Perfect Potter, he probably bent over backwards apologizing to cows for eating beef. Draco was so distracted by his thoughts he almost missed the dirty looks a group of third-year Gryffindors gave him, or the sixth-year Ravenclaw that spat at his feet. Almost.


End file.
